


Duscae Roast

by st_ivalice



Series: simul stabunt, simul cadent [6]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Coffee Run, Established Relationship, Gen, M/M, sad dads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-20 03:16:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12423936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/st_ivalice/pseuds/st_ivalice
Summary: He never knows which days, only that they are happening more frequently.





	Duscae Roast

****He never knows _which_ days, only that they are happening more frequently.

His day starts at five am; _four-thirty_ , if the King has a sleepless night, like today. He can feel the strain of the crystal through their bond and Regis clings to him through it like a drowning man, whether awake or subconsciously.

Clarus is careful not to let his contempt for the crystal seep through, only his anger at what it demands from Regis. Anger for the Astrals within it, and after, reassurance, patience, love, for Regis. Whatever he called for. So he gave himself and pushed, and it took decades, but Clarus learned how to help with the strain, to take some of the battering.

The Crystal was brutal; unforgiving, unrelenting in what it took, eager, or perhaps _furious_ that its target had changed.

 _You know me. I partake of you, too,_ he braced.

And sometimes, on cruel, merciless nights like this, he hears it answer. _You cannot always protect him, Shield. His life is mine, but tonight you belong to me._

When he gets out of bed, he’s unsure if the ache in his bones, in his knee, in his leg was his confluence with Regis or the crystal. Before the guilt sets in that _he_ can shake off the punishment, while Regis could not, Clarus drops to the floor and does three sets of push-ups, fifty each. After the first set, his joints are fluid again, as limber as they could be pushing sixty—and he’s honest that age is catching up.

After the second, he thinks of Gladio and hopes that he wouldn’t have to see his future king anguish, wouldn’t have to barter with the Astrals for an exchange of pain. Their oath made no mention of curses, but his life belonged to Regis and Regis belonged to the Crystal. And already the crystal’s magic flowed through Gladio, and already he saw how the young prince’s leg locked up after a long run.

After the third, his knee still aches, but he makes his way to a hot shower and by the time he is dressed, the sky is slowly changing. 

House Amicitia was always an early rising house. Despite semi-retirment, Jared was already up and sharing breakfast with Gladio.

“Master Clarus,” he nods. “I’ve prepared some toast and marmalade for you this morning.” A telltale sign he knew something was bothering him, perhaps simply because he had known him since he was a boy.

“Morning, dad.”

Clarus gives him a strained smile. “Up early?”

Gladio rolls his neck and shrugs. “Bad dreams. I’ll sweat them off. See you at the Citadel later, yeah?”

Before he has time to ask his son, Gladio takes an apple from the counter and heads off to the training rooms, and he wonders if it’s just Gladio’s usual fears that plague him, but the fact he’s up at this hour training when his usual hour was six isn’t very reassuring.

Either way, he thanks Jared, takes a slice for good measure and heads out to the garage. He’s still forty-five minutes ahead of schedule and when he’s sitting in his car, he sends a text to Monica to cancel his Crownsguard pickup this morning and reads the text from Regis sent fifteen minutes ago.

_The usual, but two sugars._

He can tell, despite his help, how exhausted he is by the choice. Civilian coffee was reserved for days like this, when they both were groggy and convinced more than ever that they were tired, old men. He pulls the car out of the driveway and instead of taking the main road to the Citadel, he turns on Corona Blvd and parks on the street in front of a small cafe. He’s over the name and could care less that the King’s Shield occasionally picks up coffee from _Insomniac_ , a place Noctis would probably drag Gladio and his friends to, and really, Gladio’s the one who brought home coffee one morning and unintentionally started this routine.

At this hour, it’s not as crowded as it could be but there is already a line of four people from the counter. Most people don’t recognize him immediately, and he’s always glad his attire as Shield and Council member aren’t donned until he enters the Citadel. This morning, before 6am, he’s Clarus; father, friend, grabbing coffee to get through a rough morning, even if coffee connoisseurs pickup on his bespoke tailoring and the new barista who’s been working for two weeks gets nervous when she spots him.

Still, she smiles, emphasizes _Sir,_ and asks his order. As she’s preparing everything, he confirms, when she consults a little black book behind the counter, that she’s been prepped for his inevitable visit and who exactly she’s brewing for. That the Duscae Roast with two sugars will keep the Wall up one more day, and the Phalanx Blend will help ensure that it does. For more good measure, he gets a Lucian Brew, black and _scalding,_ for Cor. He knows he’s had a sleepless night as well, and that he isn’t the only lifeline Regis clings to on his hardest nights. His bond is different, but it’s still the Crystal and even if Cor doesn’t use magic as much, it still takes from him.

Two orders are called before his and the other barista who knows the drill calls out a loud ‘ _Clarus’—_ never ‘ _Amicitia_ ’ because that _really_ draws attention— but minds are waking up as he grabs his royal order, and people give him wide eyes and wider berths as he leaves.

Back in the car, he finally takes the roundabout to the Citadel, to the private entrance and hands off his car to the valet—Varro, one of his Crownsguards—and up the steps to the Royal elevator. He punches in his code, Gladio and Iris’ birthdays and the date he took his oath, and scans his eye. His first stop is the administrative level where Cor’s office usually sat empty except for an hour a day. Two hours on days like this.

Cor is writing in a journal when he knocks once and opens the door. Immediately his eyes lock on to the coffee he’s holding and the tension in his shoulders drops slightly, enough to let him know how mortal he really is. When he takes a long drink from it—still too hot for his personal tastes— Clarus believes the temperature Cor drinks this emergency draught at acts as some form of punishment rather than a curative. Either way, Cor’s grimace finally borders on a smile and he offers his thanks.

“He’s still upstairs,” he says.

“He asked for sugar.”

Cor hums and leans back in his chair. “That’s twice this week. And you? Lucian Brew or Phalanx?”

Clarus grits. “Phalanx.” He never thought he’d be a double shot kind of drinker but his knee is starting to ache again and Cor’s gaze drops to it for a moment.

“I’m starting to think we’re getting too old.”

“Says The Immortal.”

Shaking his head, the corner of Cor’s mouth quirks. “Yet the Shield agrees.”

He does his best not to roll his eyes, but he’s grateful for the camaraderie. “ _The Shield_ hasn’t had his coffee this morning. And neither has the King.”

“Then I won’t keep him waiting a moment longer.”

Clarus leaves him to his hour and takes the elevator up again to the floor only he and few others have access to. Once, his quarters were adjacent to the King’s and maybe they both might have slept better if that was still the case, but the harrowing nights didn’t intensify until after he’d settled into Amicitia House, decades later when their hair began to lose its color, and they had children of their own.

Regis was never an early riser, and if anything Gladio lamented about Noctis’ sleeping habits was even remotely true, then father and son were very similar in that regard. If Regis was up before mid-morning, it was because he didn’t sleep. The curtains are drawn when he enters the king’s chambers, and he is only partially dressed for the day.

“Astrals, you’re finally here,” he breathes and makes to move from the chaise, but Clarus is quick to meet him and set him back down.

“It’s because of the Astrals we’re in this mess, my King,” he whispers, hands on his shoulders, his waist. It was easier to reassure than remind, even if Regis gives a humorless laugh.

“You can still back out now. Retire. Grow a garden. While you’ve still got time.”

He’s not insulted, not when they’ve vowed they will die together. It’s been one hundred and fifty years since a Shield died for his King, since the Wall went up and Lucian Kings fell victim to their magical ward. But even as Clarus adjusts the strap of Regis’ suspenders that have fallen off his shoulder, either because he is becoming too thin or did not adjust it correctly, he believes there’s still one good fight in them. If they are to be the last before the True King and his Shield, then they ought to make it count.

“My time has always been yours.” His knee rests against his, support in every way, as he offers him his coffee.

Regis takes it like a desperate wounded man takes a curative, and, Clarus thinks, that’s exactly what he is. He watches him carefully, how the finest grounds from here to Cleigne were available to him, but he wanted and needed the trendy roasts of a coffee shop their teenage sons frequented. And as he’s certain Regis is recovering his strength from the roast, he’s reminded that he doesn’t get to choose what he wants, _who_ he wants. Only that he remains, always, at his command, at hisrequest, his cry in the dark.

Finally, he takes a sip from his own drink, allowing the bitterness to fully dispel the knackered hold the crystal has on his mind.

“Thank-you,” Regis says, and Clarus feels his hand on his knee, gently pressing in all the spots that ache. It’s a practiced motion, one of affection and muscle memory, and he wants to lean in as much as pull away because he should be comforting the King, not the other way around. But, _his_ hand has never moved from Regis’ shoulder, and his fingers have been working at the tension in his neck and they both sit in an ebb and flow of magic, duty, and love.

Oaths negate any offering of thanks between them. He is duty bound to shield him from harm, but it is not the King who thanks him, and Clarus smiles. It is not the Shield that places his hand over Regis’ at his knee. “Ever at your side.”

He is sad that most of these moments now accompany pain. But even if his role as Shield has changed, he is always Clarus and he will fill the gaps that Regis needs and give what he wants, one morning or every.

 

 

 

 


End file.
